Principles of Angels

by Jaine Fenn

  It was possible the Minister had decided that Taro’s actions - no doubt known to him now through other watchers, or whatever more arcane means he used - deserved punishment. If so, hiding in the Gardens would only postpone it, maybe even make it worse.

  Taro pulled his pack up onto his back; the extra weight was a burden, one he could do without, but he had no idea if he would be able to come back for it, or if it would even still be here if he did.

  Stepping through the hedge back onto the Street got him a few odd looks from rollers in passing pedicabs. He ignored them and set off sunwise. If the Minister had decided that he was to be punished, it would happen now. He tried not to jump at movements seen out of the corner of his eye; if an Angel came for him, she would strike from above. Chances were the first he would know about it would be when she ripped his throat out. If that was what had to happen, so be it, nothing he could do. Just keep walking.

  The Leisure Quarter started less than an eighth-turn sunwise from here; this close to the centre of the City, that was a few hundred metres. Taro took it slowly, keeping close to the Gardens as he passed the silent gated Streets of the State Quarter. He heard Groove Street long before he reached it. Dancers and acrobats spilled out onto the path and the early crowds surged and flowed. Holos played above the buildings, showing the kind of fun to be had within: animated crushes of bodies moving to pounding rhythms; a lone dancer shaking her stuff in a metal frame. He ignored it all and walked to a row of niches set into the wall on the sinwards side of the Street.

  Taro had never used a public com booth before. They were there for the few topsiders who didn’t have personal coms, though you still needed City ID to use them.

  As he ducked under the clear plastic hood, the sounds of the Street faded out and the screen in front of him jumped into life. A soft voice, the same as the one in the circle-car, asked him to state his request and have his credit bracelet ready. Taro wondered if he was hearing the voice of the City. Plenty of downsiders thought of it as their living protector, but Taro had never quite managed that leap of faith. He pulled up his sleeve, ready to put the bracelet in the reader, and said, ‘Show me the one who has everything.’ His voice came out as a croak and he had to repeat the request before the voice responded, ‘Your request is acknowledged. No ID or payment is required for this service.’

  The screen went blank; even the adverts on the walls died away, and for a moment Taro wondered if something was wrong.

  Then the Minister’s voice came from the still-dark screen. ‘I think you have some explaining to do,’ he said.

  Taro took a deep breath and said, ‘He killed Malia.’

  ‘Who killed Malia?’ The Minister’s voice, though clear and perfect, sounded strangely toneless.

  ‘The Screamer, the one with Consul Vidoran.’

  ‘And that explains your behaviour in Confederacy Square.’ Still no clue as to how much the Minister already knew. But no indication he was angry either. ‘Was there any particular reason why you failed to mention the circumstances of your line-mother’s death when we met this morning?’

  ‘I should’ve, sirrah. I was surprised, meetin’ you like that. Scared, too. It’s been so hard since . . . since she died.’ The Minister deserved the whole truth. No more hiding, no more self-pity. ‘An’ I was ashamed.’

  ‘Ashamed? Surprise and fear I understand, but what had you to be ashamed of?’

  ‘It’s my fault. Malia’s death. I led him to her. Not on purpose, but, it’s still ’cause of me.’

  ‘Explain. From the beginning.’

  Taro swallowed hard. ‘Malia’d been in a mood fer a while, after one of her lovers . . . anyway she wanted me out the homespace, said I should go earn me keep. She got like that sometimes. She lets - let - me share homespace with her ’cause me blood-mother was her sister, but whenever she was having a sh—a bad time, she wanted to know I wasn’t just livin’ off her rep. I’m a—’ Taro paused, not sure how to put it delicately.

  ‘Prostitute,’ said the Minister, still without emotion. ‘Yes, I know.’

  Well, that saved him having to be subtle. ‘She said I could take a pitch on Soft Street. She’d had a word with one of the pimps there. That’s where he picked me up. I thought he was just another roller. He looked normal enough; wasn’t even wearin’ colours.’ Taro swallowed the bile rising in his throat. ‘He—’

  ‘Scarrion.’

  ‘Sirrah?’

  ‘His name is Scarrion.’

  ‘He - Scarrion - kept me fer the night.’ Taro still had the bruises. He had put up with the harsh treatment, consoling himself with the thought that the idiot roller would regret not spotting that Taro had Angel lineage. Maybe he’d ask Malia to track him down and pay him a visit later that day . . . Except the Screamer had probably picked Taro just ’cause of the colours in his hair. Probably made the pleasure he got from giving pain even greater. Taro shuddered, then continued, ‘When he threw me out in the morning I headed home. He must’ve followed me. I thought I heard someone behind me a couple of times, but I was a bit strung-out, thought I was imaginin’ it. Even if a roller’s gonna hit the sidestreets, no way they’d try and get downside. When I got back I crashed out fer a while, maybe half an hour, not long. I woke up when Malia came in.’

  Taro could see her in his mind as he spoke: his line-mother floating in the common-room in the heart of their homespace, smiling, a little stoned, in a good mood for once.

  ‘I saw movement, on the other side of the common-room. I called out, askin’ who was there.’

  Malia glances over her shoulder, casually, not worried. She’s an Angel: no one would dare threaten her, especially not here, in her own home.

  ‘Suddenly I got this freaky feelin’ in me guts and everythin’ went all slow and heavy, like in a dream, when you try to move an’ you can’t. S’pose the Screamer must’ve used his implant.’

  And now Malia’s expression changes: confusion, alarm. She tries to leap for the unseen intruder, but she’s clumsy, uncoordinated. She falls, tangling her foot in the nets strung across the gap in the middle of the common-room, but bounces back almost at once.

  ‘The Screamer came out from where he’d been hidin’ once we were down. He had a boltgun - dunno where he got that from. Malia went for him, but she was all over the place.’

  She tries to jump for his throat, blades extended, but the net still catching her foot pulls her off-balance. She’s trying to get her leg free when he raises the boltgun. He’s smiling, looking pleased with himself.

  ‘He didn’t give no challenge, no formal declaration of feud, nothin’. He just shot her.’ He couldn’t stop his voice shaking.

  The bolt shatters her skull. Taro feels something soft and warm spatter his face. Her body flops onto the nets, then slips slowly, slowly, through. Taro looks on, unable to move. The boltgun doesn’t have the range to hit him across the common-room and the Screamer is looking around for the safest way round the floor-gap. His head swings at a noise outside. He opens his mouth again.

  Taro’s last thought before the assassin’s sonics knock him out is to silently make the promise he tried to fulfil in Confederacy Square: I’ll kill you! I swear it!

  Reliving Malia’s death now brought the anger back. ‘Sirrah, I know I was a fool,’ Taro admitted, ‘but I’d never betray me City. He killed an Angel fer no reason, here, in our City. By the rules of the Concord you gotta call feud on him fer that, or at least tell the Yazil League so they can!’

  ‘Do not presume to tell me the rules of the Concord.’ The Minister’s cold dismissal cut through Taro’s anger.

  ‘I’m sorry, sirrah. I forgot meself.’

  ‘Quite so. And have you forgotten any more details you think I should perhaps know?’

  ‘No, sirrah. That’s all. I’ll take the rap, whatever punishment you’ve decided for me.’ Taro stood a little straighter as he spoke.

  ‘I think you have already suffered enough for your mistake. Nothing can change what was done.
Your shame is understandable. However, this news does not alter your mission, which is to watch Nual and report on her. Malia’s death is not yet common knowledge, so you may still be able to trade on your heritage to find information.’

  ‘What about the Screamer, Scarrion?’

  ‘Scarrion is not your problem. If you are lucky, you will never meet him again. You must forget the past; your future is mine, as my spy. I await your next report.’

  Taro wasn’t sure whether the Minister had gone until the soft voice stated, ‘Thank you for using the City-com network,’ and the adverts started playing round the walls again.

  He ducked back out of the booth and looked at the bracelet on his wrist. It was still valid, and there was a small balance left: enough to buy him a decent meal, or maybe a pedicab ride to save his aching legs. He thought for a moment, and realised he had another use for it.

  CHAPTER SIX

  As the pedicab pulled away down the tree-lined avenue, Shamal Binu leaned towards Elarn and said conspiratorially, ‘Meeting Consul Vidoran like that is quite a start to your visit.’

  Elarn remembered where she had heard the name now: among the media dumps from Vellern there had been several adverts, calling for this man’s death: ‘Consul Vidoran - who’s he really working for? Not the people!’ Another had been less subtle: ‘Remove Vidoran now! His time has come!’

  She turned back to the agent, trying not to flinch at the woman’s constant invasion of her personal space, and asked, ‘So, what has he done? To have people want to . . . remove him, I mean.’

  Medame Binu waved a hand vaguely, feathers swishing. ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you in detail, my dear - I can’t say I follow the Concord that closely. He made some trade concession to Yazil, or something like that - just the usual political wheeler-dealing. I doubt it would have put him on the hot-list if we weren’t hosting the Assembly. He must have annoyed some powerful people, though. I can’t remember the last time so much advertising space was assigned to one hot-list member.’

  ‘The hot-list being the people eligible to be “removed”?’ Elarn tried to keep the disapproval out of her voice.

  ‘Precisely.’ Medame Binu smiled, apparently delighted that this primitive offworlder had made the effort to acquaint herself with sophisticated City customs.

  They were clear of the trees now, travelling through gentle urban parkland, complete with picnic tables and families playing ball games. The bucolic effect was slightly offset by the mass of buildings beyond the greenery and, beyond that, the orange of the forcedome. Off to the left, something looking like a squat white cylinder on its end was visible over the treetops. That must be the amphitheatre, Elarn thought, distracted for a moment by the view. Seen from above it had looked like a small upturned cup, but down here its scale became apparent.

  She turned her thoughts back to her politician saviour. ‘And did you vote for him, Medame Binu?’ she asked, almost to herself.

  Medame Binu apparently had good hearing but very little idea when she was being mocked. ‘Shamal, please, no need for formalities with me. And as for Consul Vidoran, well no, I didn’t use my vote this month - as I said, I don’t take that much interest in politics unless it affects the entertainments industry. Besides, who’d want to see a handsome creature like that get blown away?’

  ‘And will he? Get blown away, I mean.’ Elarn found herself distressed by the idea that the most likeable person she had met since leaving home could be about to die.

  ‘Oh, you haven’t heard!’ Shamal Binu leaned closer, her hand brushing Elarn’s knee, then withdrawing slightly as Elarn flinched. ‘They tried - this morning - but the Angel missed. Missed! It caused quite an upset.’

  ‘So should he be out and about like that?’ Elarn asked, startled. ‘I mean, won’t they try again?’

  ‘Oh no.’ Medame Binu patted Elarn’s knee. ‘It’s pretty rare for an Angel to miss her mark, so when it does happen - like this morning - we believe it was fated: the will of the City, we say. He’ll have been let off his duties in the Assembly for the rest of the day, and his career’ll be wrecked, but unless he makes any more foolish decisions, his life’s safe enough. And tomorrow he’ll be yesterday’s news.’ Then, as if bored with the subject, Medame Binu gave a small flicking gesture, taking in all they surveyed, and asked, ‘Anyway, what do you think of the glories of Khesh City?’

  ‘It’s quite a change from home,’ said Elarn, diplomatically.

  ‘I’m sure, I’m sure. You’ll just love Lily Street: it’s very genteel, the quietest Street in the Guest Quarter. And the Manor Park is one of the nicest hotels - not the most ostentatious, but good quality. I thought you’d like that better than one of the bigger establishments.’

  One of the more expensive establishments, you mean, thought Elarn. But the wretched woman was right: she would prefer quiet and civilised, if there was anything like that available here.

  They turned onto a wide boulevard that edged the Gardens as Medame Binu wittered on breathlessly, ‘I’ve arranged a room with a view over the Street, and I’ve had them install sonic damping. I did try to book rehearsal space, but this has all been such a rush, what with only getting the call from your manager a couple of weeks ago. Basic costs are all covered, but extras you’ll need to settle yourself. Have you had a chance to look at the itinerary I sent you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Elarn said, ‘I noticed several dates were provisional.’

  ‘I’m still in negotiation with the venues - but we’re definitely on for tomorrow night: a lovely little salon above a very exclusive boutique in Silk Street. Not that large, but very select. Anyway, you’ll have a full day to rest and get your bearings before that. Some people take several days just getting used to the City’s layout.’ She giggled in a way that suggested that even though she lived here, she herself sometimes got lost.

  ‘I’ll just have to do my best to adjust,’ Elarn said drily. ‘Would I be right in assuming that as we turned right onto this street, and we were facing outwards - rimwards, rather - that we are now travelling sunwise?’

  ‘You have done your homework.’ She sounded impressed.

  Elarn, ignoring the agent’s patronising tone, continued, ‘And would I be right that of the four Quarters, I need only worry about the Guest Quarter, where I am staying, and the Merchant Quarter, where I’ll be performing?’

  ‘Right again - unless you want to visit the Leisure Quarter, of course. I wouldn’t advise it, really, I wouldn’t have thought it your kind of place. If you must, let me know, and I’ll recommend a reputable agency to provide a guard. You might want to see a bit of the State Quarter too - I am still hoping we’ll be able to get you in for a performance at the Salvatine Cathedral on Grace Street in the State Quarter. That would be something, wouldn’t it? That place has a good capacity, and lots of prestige. Which reminds me: I’ve left the day after your first concert free, as that’s the one that corresponds to your holy day.’

  ‘I’m not a Salvatine.’

  ‘What?’ Shamal Binu stopped in mid-flow as the pedicab swung left under a huge floral arch.

  ‘Were you not aware of that?’ Elarn tried not to sound smug at finally having fazed her agent.

  ‘No, but—You are from Khathryn, aren’t you? And Khathryn is a Salvatine theocracy run on religious law—’

  ‘It is,’ Elarn agreed, ‘and I’m a registered agnostic.’

  ‘But you sing religious music—’

  ‘I sing it, yes. That doesn’t mean I believe it.’

  ‘Oh well, we don’t need to mention that, do we?’

  Not if it decreases my curiosity value, thought Elarn. The agent’s reaction confirmed her suspicions that her appeal lay not so much in her vocal talents as in her novelty: Come and see the religious recluse making a once-in-a-lifetime trip out into the big scary universe .

  The agent continued, ‘But you don’t have any implants? No tone monitor? You’ll understand that I need to be clear on this, given the sort of audience we’r
e hoping to attract.’

  ‘No implants. Even agnostics are subject to Khathryn’s laws forbidding personal enhancements; being agnostic merely means I am not expected to take part in religious activities.’ She resisted the temptation to add: but yes, I do live all alone in a big sprawling mansion at the top of storm-lashed cliffs. She could hardly blame Shamal Binu for trying to make the most of this opportunity to tout an exotically straitlaced performer, but neither did she intend spending more time than was absolutely professionally necessary in the woman’s company.

  The agent’s com chirped and, with an apologetic smile at her client, she raised her wrist to take the call. Elarn took the chance to study the early evening crowd in Lily Street, which was positively sedate compared with the crush in the transit hall. She was amazed at the variation in body-shape and personal style, though there were no downsiders here, thank God. Many people wore arm-bands, or coloured tokens pinned to their clothes, presumably denoting their loyalty to the world or City within the Confederacy they came from - or maybe had just decided to support.